


Swap The Sea For The River

by knaveofmogadore



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, M/M, Past Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 21:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17753975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knaveofmogadore/pseuds/knaveofmogadore
Summary: In their first past lives, Achilles and Patroclus found each other just the same; Achilles is a prince of the city of Uruk, and Patroclus has infinite patience. Ancient Mesopotamia AU.





	Swap The Sea For The River

His footsteps felt impossibly loud in the empty hall. Patroclus had only rarely been inside the palace of Uruk, but even he knew that there should be servants here. Only a short walk back through the palace would show him servants and priestesses and scribes going about their daily duties. The stretch of walk in front of the prince's door, however, was respectfully silent. As he waited for someone to answer his tentative knocking, Patroclus ran his morning orders through his mind. The head priest had sent him away from his temple duties today just for this. 

_The prince has fallen ill with heat sickness. You're needed, be respectful and soothe him._

And that was it. Man of few words he was. 

A young girl let him slip through the door. She leaned with tiredness, her dark hair slipping free of its ribbons to spill over her brown skin and sagging eyes. It was no wonder she was so drained, at the moment she was the prince's only attendant. Out of pity, Patroclus dismissed her. 

The Prince himself was reclined back on an ivory bed. A thin cloth had been laid over him at some point in an attempt to cover his heated skin, but any fabric covering him must have been thrown to the floor, because the prince was as bare as the noontime sun. The sandstone floor was decorated with white and red sheets as the prince trembled on his ivory bed. Patroclus tried to ignore the heat rising to his cheeks and began the long task of breaking the fever. The prince, for his part, only groaned at him when he approached his bed. Whatever burst of energy had allowed him to terrorize his attendants away had left him by now. All that was left was to hiss when Patroclus turned his arm to check for sun burns. His bronze skin hid them well from a distance. 

The shaking in his hands stilled and the heat faded from his face as he fell into the familiar tasks of his duties. The prince’s skin was flaking along his burning cheeks and his scalp, so Patroclus called for a servant in the hall to bring milk. His forehead was radiating heat, so a cool watered cloth was pressed to it. He would not sweat, so water was carefully poured past his lips. He was murmuring while in the throes of his fever, so a prayer was said to Damu and Gau, gods of healing, over the milk. Patroclus rests for a moment when the prince's long hair begins to stick to his neck with sweat. His hair is drawn back and his skin patted dry.

As he washes the prince’s face with milk to soothe his burns, he seems to stir from the distant place he had been. His eyes flutter and he frowns, even whimpers as he becomes aware of the aches in his body anew. The prince opens his eyes a fraction and squints at Patroclus. He smiles at him in a way he hopes is gentle and kind. The prince seems soothed, because he smiles back lazily, and his eyes soften. His words slur with the effort to speak and Patroclus wishes he wouldn't. 

“I remember you from somewhere.” 

“I'm on call often, you have probably seen me running to where I'm needed.” 

The prince hums, “You don't seem like the type who runs.” 

He scoffs and pretends to be offended, but the prince is not wrong. Patroclus is thin, his arms strong from work but his stature short. He legs are fast, but under his skirt they're as bony as a child's. The prince was built strong and sturdy-like someone who grew up fighting for sport, because he did. Patroclus /did/ remember him, as a young man with unusual red hair in the marketplace. He remembers the playful fight with another boy. He remembers the way those shaking arms picked another man up over his shoulder, the way his bare chest heaved with the effort. He watched these now covered legs push against the dirt. Patroclus intimately remembers the way the late afternoon sun turned this man's bronze skin to gold. And this man is smiling at him, still in fever. He taps Patroclus’ thigh to grab his attention. 

“I remember you! You were the pretty boy from the market,” the prince grins, slow and smug, “you were watching me.”

Something in the way the prince seemed so pleased, it made the sun himself brush the center of his chest, “I was not watching you, you two were just in the way.” 

He hums, “You shouldn't lie, Asu can’t get sick.” 

What the prince did not know was that Patroclus was only an Asu, a doctor, in _training_. The only reason he was sent was because he was the only one to send. This was his first solo house call. It was best, perhaps, to not tell him that. 

“You're still weak from fever, you should rest.” 

“Will you still be here when I wake up?” 

Patroclus pauses in the motion of drawing a blanket up to the prince's chin. 

“You should be fine without me.” 

The prince pouts and raises a shaking hand to weakly trap Patroclus’ wrist. If he wanted to, the lightest tug would free his hand. His fingers were impossibly hot to the touch, and when they trailed down they left the burn of the sun in their wake.

“Can I at least have your name?” he asks.

“Patroclus.” 

The prince smiled broadly even as he struggled to keep his eyes open. He repeated it several times over like he was tasting the syllables in his mouth. 

“Hi Patroclus, I'm Achilles. You're very pretty.” 

He was so startled that he almost dropped the bowl in his hands. The heat returned full force to his face and he was thankful that was not something others could see through the dark brown of his skin. 

“I. You should rest, send for me if you need to.” 

“Happy to,” Achilles mumbled. He was asleep before Patroclus could retreat from the room. 

~~~~~~~

Patroclus was becoming intimately aware of the details on the halls and doorways in this palace. If someone challenged him to, he could walk blindfolded from his room to Achilles’ without once running into anything. Over the course of the last few moon cycles, Achilles had sent for Patroclus thirty times. Each reason Achilles came up with to pull him away from his temple duties was more conspicuous than the last. 

Patroclus slips through the door without knocking. Two attendants were fussing over Achilles, pressing a damp cloth to his head and brushing his long hair away from his face. They all turn when he enters-including Achilles-whose eyes followed him, looked into him like his body was made of glass all the way down to his soul. He waves his flustered attendant away and sits up with no issue. 

“I’m so glad to see you! You see, I am in terrible pain, and have an awful fever, and need you to stay with me until I’m cured.” 

Achilles must have been trying to sound weak, but his voice was too full of life, his movements in dismissing his servants too sure and steady for him to be half as ill as he claimed.

“You seem to be doing better already,” Patroclus said with a growing smirk. He leans in and pretends to inspect his eyes, but they both knew there was no reason. Whatever the reason for this call, the prince was not ill. 

His grin morphs to match him, and his voice takes on his teasing lilt, “A miracle! It must be because you’re here.” 

“Just like your broken finger was a miracle, I’m sure.” 

Achilles smiles his easy and lazy smile. He is like a ray of sun, like the soft light of the moon, he is warmth and kindness and gentleness all in one. He was also, Patroclus was sure, completely full of shit. His beautiful face and delicate features were full of petty lies. 

“You must have really angered someone to get heat sickness so often. What did you do, kill a bull? Steal a goddess’ hair ribbons?” 

He laughs like Patroclus had just told the most hilarious joke ever told by man. HIs good humour, however, shifts as soon as it appeared to something Patroclus had never seen in him. Achilles was nervous.

“To be honest, my only wrongdoing is being cursed by Ianna’s whims with love.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“I like you. I like you in the way the moon loves the sun, more than death loves war, in the way kings love each other.” 

Somehow, this was the one thing Patroclus never saw coming. It all felt like a joke, some long running, terribly cruel joke. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, oh my gods I just made you so uncomfortable-”

Patroclus cut off Achilles rambling before it started with a tremulous whisper, “What do you mean by _‘cursed_?”

“Cursed only because I’m alone in my feelings. Ianna laughs at me because my love might as well be as far as the underworld, too. I am the sun without the light of the moon.” 

The reality of this moment almost made Patroclus laugh. Achilles sent for him, joked and teased with him, and something in him the entire time thought Patroclus never liked him back. 

Patroclus’ voice drops, “You are very skilled at coming up with half truths.” 

Before Achilles could ask Patroclus what he meant, Patroclus kissed him. He rested his hands on Achilles’ face and drew him in close and pressed his lips to his. The kiss was short, and their teeth bumped in a way that make Patroclus’ jaw sing with pain, and then it was over. He pulled away as soon as it started and turned to run, sure, somehow, that his body would be tossed over the city walls and he drinking dust in the underworld by morning. A hand on his wrist stopped him short. He turned his head just enough to watch him, Achilles, whisper a single, choked _wait_. Everything in his mind screamed to /run/ but something in his heart whispered _stay_ in the sweetest voice. With the gentlest tug, he sat next to him on his Ivory bed and let him hold his hand on top of the red linen sheets. 

They sat there like that for what felt like hours, days, an eternity of silence as he stared down at his lap, twisting his brown skirt in his hands until the threads loosened. In the quiet Patroclus could hear his breathing. He could count the breaths and know that the young man beside him was nervous too. Achilles watched him and traced his features with his eyes in a way that was old but somehow felt new all at once. After the longest moment of him studying the tight curls of his hair Patroclus looked up from his lap to study him back, if only to understand what he saw. Achilles noticed, and smiled timidly, and pressed his free fingers to his lips. 

“You really outdid yourself with your teeth.” 

The heat rushed back to Patroclus’ face all at once. Apologies flowed out of him so quickly they blended together, and Achilles had to put both hands up to stop the flood. While they were there he slid his fingers among Patroclus’ to still his own trembling.

Achilles sounded as pained as Patroclus felt, “Please! It’s my punishment for being so dense.” 

They both looked down at their hands with the same realization. Patroclus looked back up first to see a lock of Achilles long, odd hair curl over his face and hide his timid smile. His fingers itched to brush it away, but they were trapped by the desperate tangle of their fingers. When he finally looked up to meet him the moon was in his eyes, shining just for him. 

This kiss was gentler. Achilles pressed their hands to the bed as he leaned in to meet him. Their lips pressed softly, sure that there would be many more moments like these. Patroclus knew so well the lines of Achilles face that he could follow them with his lips, he could press his cheek to his. He would know this face blind from across the desert. 

Cautiously, Patroclus whispered, “So you really like me?” 

“As sure as the moon shines and the sun burns my skin, I do.”


End file.
